


More to Life Than Glory

by Darkravenwrote



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ice Skating, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/pseuds/Darkravenwrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's dreamed about it his whole life.  He didn't think about the stress of it all, though.  Gwen's creepy stalker guy isn't helping matters either.  for the Merlin_Olympics 2014 on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More to Life Than Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 Merlin Olympics over on LiveJournal, based loosely but not really succeeding on this prompt by the wonderful Tryslora: Merlin and Gwen have been partners for a LONG time. It started out on ice when they were children, and grew into the kind of incredibly comfortable perfect relationship that shows when they perform on ice. Enter Arthur, who thinks ice dancing isn't a sport, and has nothing to say but snark to both Merlin and Gwen, but Merlin can't stop thinking about him. Luckiily, Gwen is open-minded...
> 
> Sports included: Pairs Figure Skating, mentions of Men's Moguls. (Although I do watch quite a bit of ice skating, I'd like to apologise for any inaccuracies. Hopefully I didn't butcher it too much.)
> 
> Disclaimer: Merlin and the Olympics belong to their respective creaters. Any resemblance to real life people or events is accidental. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement of Merlin or the Olympics is intended.

 

** More to Life Than Glory **

 

When he is little, Merlin's mother tells him she refuses to let her son grow up to be a 'product of society's bigoted stereotypes.' At the time he doesn't understand what half the words mean. All he knows it that from then on he has to endure the absolute torture that is football club after school every Wednesday but on Saturday morning he is signed up for two hours of freedom in the form of ballet class at Ealdor's School of Dance.  
  
Two years later, she says he can choose which he wants to continue with. Wednesdays he comes home battered, bruised and caked in mud, but the growing collection of dance trophies crowded onto the rickety mantel piece at home never fail to brighten his spirits. The choice isn't a hard one.  
  
That is the year Gwen, the shy girl at the back who is sweet and kind and needs to perfect every move as if it were as important as breathing, stutters and stumbles over her words from the front of the class but eventually invites everyone to her birthday party. While their parents arrange lift shares, Gwen natters Merlin's ear off about how she's been taking ice skating lessons for six months and it's 'the best thing _ever!!_ ' Merlin thinks it looks rather painful, like football, and his limbs, which are already turning gangly even though they're all years from teenagedom, will be too awkward to do much of anything useful. But his mother is encouraging, and he's stubborn and fearless enough with youth that he'll try anything at least once.  
  
He falls over as soon as he sets foot on the ice, eyes wide and surprised. But Gwen is absolutely right. It's the best three hours of his entire life.  
  
There are many sacrifices in the years to come, ballet for one because his mum can't afford both, and he spends most weekends and evenings working part time jobs around his homework so he can afford the travel and equipment costs, but he wouldn't change any of his decisions for the world when all is said and done.  
  
Especially now that he's standing, Gwen by his shoulder just as awestruck, at the entrance to the Olympic Village, and conquering the world feels quite literally like a very real possibility.

 

*   *   *

  
It all starts when Arthur decides to amble down to one of the practice rinks in pursuit of a nice piece of arse.  
  
No, that's not quite accurate. It starts much further into the past than that, back when Uther's opinion was the only one and Arthur wasn't one of the only gold medal hopes of their entire Olympic team. But delving into that story might uncover daddy issues he is rather set on glossing over for now.  
  
So, let's just say it starts when he catches the eye of a french physio with nice tits across the restaurant one night and decides the next morning he's fucking frustrated and needs to blow off some steam before his first race.  
  
Being back at a rink isn't the most comfortable place for Arthur. Way back in the day, it had been heavily suggested that, should he wish to succeed, he should choose a winter sport to compete in mainly because there was little to no national competition in their country and 'I like winners, Arthur. You're a winner, aren't you?' - like Uther didn't trust him to win in a sport where the competition was an athlete every square metre. But back in those days, when he'd had to pick his sport or be forced into one, he'd liked the speed skating, had his little heart set on it privately. All that power focused on one single goal, but, alas, 'there's no glory in sliding round a track on springs, Arthur' and 'you'll never find a wife with thighs like thunder, Arthur. You want a wife, don't you?' And maybe he fucking didn't, certainly not at four anyway. So speed skating had been swiftly whisked from the table.  
  
Arthur had quickly lost enthusiasm after that until his time ran out and one morning over his orange juice it was 'we're taking our holiday at the Alpine cabin this year, Arthur. Skiing is the gentleman's sport, you know?' And thus skiing it was. And has been ever since, non stop.  
  
Not that he's bitter or anything. And there aren't any horrifyingly bad memories of places like this. It's more the loss of a potential future rather than a job, which is what he's doing now, and Uther's reminders of 'skating is best left to the ladies, Arthur. No son of mine will be seen poncing about on skates if I have anything to do with it.' And he did, because he's Uther Pendragon. So slowly the idea has cemented itself into his mind over the years that speed skating would have ended up with him looking like an idiot because any kind of skating is a woman's sport and he's better off fucking up his knees macho-masculinely navigating the moguls instead. Logically.  
  
But on the plus side, there are some pretty hot chicks hanging about the winter sport scene, which brings him neatly back to the reason he's here, at an ice rink of all places, trying to score some tail.

 

*   *   *

  
The first time Merlin spots him, he's loitering at the top of the stands in the shadows. In fact, Merlin probably wouldn't have noticed him at all if he hadn't landed flat on his back screwing up a quad - Gaius' eyebrow is telling him silently from the sidelines that everybody makes mistakes and he should get off his arse before Gwen gets devastatingly far ahead of him in their program.  
  
“Are you hurt?” Gwen's voice is suddenly at his side, worried, and the music is cutting off at her hand signal. She's biting her lip and twiddling with a ringlet that's sprung free from her taut bun – she's just as nervous as he is but trying not to show it and seriously that bloke staring from up in the shadows isn't helping at all.  
  
“No!” He yelps immediately, because Gwen is the kind of partner that cares enough about his welfare that she'd give up her lifetime dream of just _competing_ in an Olympic games if there was an inkling of so much as a bruised kneecap. “No,” he mutters a little more reassuringly, calmer. “Just that guy up there throwing off my focus a little. But no worries. The stands in the main areana'll be packed even if we're at the beginning. I'm just trying to find someone to blame my nerves on.” He smiles as widely as he can at her and hopes it doesn't come off like he's sucking a lemon.  
  
The smile he gets in return is bright and brilliant with excitement and he thinks it's the most beautiful thing in the world, well worth putting there, as he digs his blade into the ice and slides back to his feet. She's his best friend and the most perfect skating partner. And that's amazing but another thing that's flaying his nerves: he hopes he's good enough to do her justice when she spreads her wings.  
  
The loiterer becomes a worryingly familiar one over the next few days while he's _trying_ to concentrate because this is a stressful situation and he's at the Olympics and he absolutely _can't_ hyperventilate in the middle of a professionally choreographed routine that's going to be broadcast all over the world - _to his mother's living room!_ \- tomorrow afternoon because taking ill is surely worth a deduction of a few professionalism points, right? So, in short, he can't deal with a new Gwen stalker who likes the way her skirt twirls up!

 

*   *   *

  
Arthur doesn't win the gold. Or the silver. But his bronze is respectable and he's ecstatic with it. Third in the whole fucking _world!_ Not many people can say they've done that.  
  
But his utter childish delight isn't quite the same as the storm cloud that makes its home permanently above his father's head from then on. He's expecting a talking to a dinner that night, so he escapes to a place he doesn't think he'll be looked for. He'll avoid the stony stare of the starter, the hidden retorts of the main meal and then, worst, the disappointed lecture of dessert.  
  
They let him into the back of the stadium with a swish of his competitors pass, tell him to stay in the VIP areas because they don't have extra security for him. He's fine with that. The small crowd is in an uproar when he nestles into a seat not too far from the front – apparently this early in the competition no one bothers to turn up but disqualifications can still happen.  
  
Arthur feels pity for the man skidding back to the the gate, not least because of his unfortunately flamboyant pink costume. It brings his father's wrath back to the forefront of his mind. After all, if speed skating is a woman's sport, he doesn't like to imagine what Uther's true feelings about male figure skaters are. He's aware it's been drilled into him that they're all 'bent pansies who wouldn't know a _real_ sport if it rogered them up the backside.' His own opinions aren't quite so solid, especially since his favourite pastime the last few days has been to do nothing but stare at one skater in particular. Who conveniently enough-  
  
They look nice together, like they fit, like it's comfortable and Arthur vaguely wishes his was a team sport so he could feel something other than the concealed rivalry. They're matching in black, red flames glittering across chests and against thighs, looking real with the swish of their clothing.  
  
She's like lightning across the ice, graceful and a presence that pleases the audience as they watch enraptured by her display of athletic prowess and skill. Guinevere Smithson, the board tells him. And he enjoys watching her spin and leap across the rink.  
  
But it isn't her he's been spying on for the past three days when he should have been getting ice baths and rub downs. It isn't her he's been skulking at the top of the stands for, freezing below the air con, trying to catch a glimpse.  
  
He has been avoiding responsibility and skirting behind his coach's back because he can't stop _staring_ at the way this man skates! He's gangly, so the assumption is that he should be clumsy as fuck, tumbling at every opportunity. But, weirdly, he's not. Really, really not. He's smooth and agile and his limbs are coordinated and flowing and Arthur can't tear his eyes off of him. He doesn't have the skill of his female counterpart, in fact he lands awkwardly on their first jump, adds an awkward extra twirl before catching up to her. But there's a charisma about him, a spark of magic that endears him to the entire audience, makes them want him to do well.  
  
Arthur's been spellbound by it nearly the whole week. Even more so now, with the atmosphere and the the hairs on his arms shivering to life.  
  
He jumps to his feet and starts screaming his lungs out when Guinevere swings into the air next. Physically can't stop himself.

 

*   *   *

  
They'd switched out the quad for a triple and downgraded one of their spins. Thankfully this seems to be the correct decision. Merlin stumbles on the first jump, almost goes down but corrects with an obvious over rotated accidental spin but carries on nonetheless. He's exhausted by the time they come to their final throw and he isn't sure his arms will hold out when it comes to catching her – mercifully they do. He sweating and his muscles are quivering from the strain when they go into their final move worth points, a combined spin. He thinks he might trip over as he weaves himself around Gwen's flexible body and his eyes are going blurry because he's so tired. God, he's starting to feel even sicker in his stomach than when they'd glided on at the start.  
  
But somehow he makes it through and he can't stop smiling the entire time they're out there.  
  
In the end, they don't even make it to the next day's free dance, but it's only one position and they've scraped an equaliser with their season's best. It's their first games and, with any luck, there's still plenty ahead of them, they're both only eighteen after all. They're both chuffed and hugging and Gwen squeezes him until any form of apology he can make is gone with his remaining breath. Gaius has a new list of improvements to work from and the accomplished feeling makes him feel high as a kite, almost nonsensical, like he doesn't have any words left.  
  
Later, after he's watched in awe as the other pairs take to the ice and skate like the fate of the free world depends on the nailing of every landing, they're just heading back to the village when someone calls out to them.  
  
Merlin's gut recognises him immediately: Gwen's stalker, finally plucking up the nerve to come and introduce himself. He's surprised when Gwen gushes and blushes and stutters like when she was little. “Arthur Pendragon!”  
  
Merlin's about to back off and give them their room so the bloke, pompous though he may look and creepy though he may possibly be, can ask his partner out – she's a clever girl with a big brother who can take care of herself. But Pendragon flings out a hand towards him comically and steps around Gwen, his smile tight and awkward. Merlin has the feeling he isn't often left in a social situation where he's unsure of what to do.  
  
“Would you like to dinner with me?” He blunders once he's in front on Merlin. He looks instantly horrified and corrects, “Go. Would you like to _go_ to dinner with me?”  
  
And Merlin shouldn't. He's been classifying him, even calling him in place of a name internally, 'creepy stalker guy' all week. Why on earth would he go to dinner with the bloke? But then he thinks of the blond hair flashing in his peripheral vision – he can focus now that the adrenalin isn't making him sick with nerves and stress. And he recognises his voice, but he's never heard him speak before so the only possible solution is that he was screaming his support loader than everyone else.  
  
“But Gwen, you've been watching her all week?” He phrases it like a question, unsure, because, well, duh, _Gwen_ , and what he thinks might just be happening is too good to actually be happening.  
  
“You're an idiot,” is all Merlin gets in return before the guy, Arthur, swaggers off, glancing over his shoulder and saying, “Are you coming then? Before the snow melts if you can manage it.”  
  
It isn't until later, when they're snogging in an abandoned locker room, that it occurs to Merlin he never actually said 'yes.'


End file.
